kore_logs | maybe I'll sleep when I am dead

Jesse watches Finch still for a few long seconds, not really sure what to say to that. They're friends, sure, but he wasn't sure he ranked himself that important up on Finch's list, right? Just a step below Galen? He leans back after a moment and squints his eyes shut, fingers drumming against the counter. "So, he's-" He starts to work out, trails off briefly. "What, jealous? Is that what he's doin'?"

Pretty close, really. Jesse shrugs. "I dunno. But you're my friend and s'what happens - it's gonna go after everybody I give a damn about. S'what it does, s'what it made Galen do. S'not Galen, it's the fucked up dog-corrupted Galen. It gets at all the people you're close to and drives them insane, takes as many people s'possible - if it's... if it's after me, if it's just the fucking dog by itself and it's attached t'me, it's gonna go after you."

Heavy swing part two. "S'gonna make me go after you." A beat. "So I can't sleep. Again. S'gonna bite me. I won't."

"Man, not again," Jesse immediately butts in, his voice coming out in a lengthy sigh as he adjusts his stance again and slowly slides down the front of the counter to sit with Finch. He crouches instead of parking it on the floor, lets his arms dangle over his knees as he looks at Finch and finally nudges him with a hand. "Cuz last time worked out so well for ya?"

It's not that Jesse's not going to pull Finch's ass out of the fire again if he needs it this time, because he absolutely will. It's moreso that he doesn't want to have to see the poor guy go through all that shit a second time. He's dreading having to coax away more pipes, jagged pieces of window glass. "How d'you know it's even him this time? The, the, the dog thing. How d'you know it ain't actually the docs? They're always climbin' up in our brains and gettin' screwy."

"How's that any better?" Jesse asks dully, not looking up. "Maybe it is, maybe it ain't, but we're still getting fucked with and you still saw - that." His grip on his hair tightens. Not that they can do anything about it. "I can do it. I - I'll just keep myself away from pointy objects, right?" He laughs a little, but it's hollow.

Another swig. This is going to be gone in a minute, here. "You don't gotta be 'round, neither. You don't gotta save me. Rather have you away from this shit than right up and personal."

"Oh," Jesse immediately rebuts, and his eyes roll and his head thunks back against the counter behind him, "man, shut the fuck up." He lets his head fall to the side so he can look at Finch directly. "Seriously? You think I'm gonna ditch your ass when you've got all that goin' down, you're stupider than you look."

He turns his head back away, threads his fingers together and glares at the wall in front of him. "So how's-" He wets his lips and folds and unfolds his hands. "How's this work anyway? How's that mean, do I gotta not sleep too? Keep that thing outta my head?"

Okay, so he's expecting that. He didn't think Pinkman would leave, which feels good, reassuring, and scary all at once. Pulling his knees closer to his chest, Jesse sort of just slumps. There's only so long the human body can be frightened before everything just - shuts down. His voice comes out creaky when he talks next.

"No," Jesse starts, resting his head on his knees. "S'like. An infection. I don't got it yet. Not gonna affect you 'less I got it. You're fine. Don't worry."

Jesse's thumb rubs up against the side of his nose as he thinks, and he gives a minute shake of his head. "Well, yeah, I mean, if it's your thing," he concedes a bit antsily, still not sure if that's reassuring enough for him to want to be dozing off any time soon. Then again, after what's happened, he's pretty sure he's not jumping straight back into sleeping tonight. "What if it is the docs, though? I mean, they could go to town any time they wanted to, right?"

"Then there's no point in worrying," Jesse mutters, taking another swig from his bottle. One drink left, and then he needs another. This is not even close to being enough. "If it's them we're all fucked." Wow, optimistic, Jesse, thanks for that.

"S'not much we're in control of here. And we're gonna run outta booze eventually." His voice is dull and flat. "S'fucked up when you want the thing that's hurting you t'be a bunch of scientists who can pick at you from a lab instead of a nightmare. The fuck."

There's a slow kind of way Jesse looks over to Finch after all that, something in his expression that's approaching horror at what he's hearing. Thinking it is one thing, and he's sure as shit had his share of that in the time since he's realized just what the fuck is going on. Hearing it out loud, in a voice like that, it makes his skin crawl and his shoulders hunch up around his ears. He could absolutely submit to that theory right now, and the most of him wants to.

Instead, he slaps a hand hard against Finch's chest, shifts so that he's down on one knee next to him. He leans forward on a fist and gets right up in his face. "You need to reel in all your whiny, self-deprecation bullshit," he hisses; he sounds angry, and this time it is most decidedly at Finch. "The hell am I supposed to do with that, huh?" Because he knows Finch has been through a lot tonight and he knows how hard this has gotta be on him right now, but he's so not fucking having it.

He leans over for the fridge and jerks it open, helping himself to another one of the bottles inside. When he plants it on the ground between them, it's a little more loudly than he initially meant. "Here's what's gonna happen. We're gonna get blasted, we're gonna stop talkin' doom and gloom and 'oh, my God, we're all gonna die,' and you," he punches Finch's arm again for good measure, "are gonna stop bein' such a pussy. Got it?"

It's - probably the first time that Pinkman has gotten in his face this way, and Finch isn't expecting it. Sure, maybe he wasn't expecting Pinkman to put up with that bullshit, and he's always hoping someone's going to call him on it, but this is different. After the shit he's been through tonight, the anger and the slap to his chest makes Finch startle badly and flinch sharply.

Reel in your whiny, self-deprecation bullshit. It bounces around in his skull and settles, echoes in that familiar nasty voice in the back of his head. Right. Right, don't let yourself get too comfortable, this isn't - it's not okay. Jesse falls silent, looking back down at the floor and not at Pinkman. Flinches awfully again when Pinkman puts the bottle down, leans away, like he's expecting something very different to happen than a bottle being set on the floor. He sucks in a quiet, shaky breath, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm quickly - curls away from the punch and Pinkman entirely. He keeps his eyes on the ground carefully and holds his mostly empty bottle tightly.

His voice is small. "Got it." Sir.

That was- not the reaction he was hoping for.

So he doesn't have too much experience with this kind of thing, the physical abuse that Finch has been through, and he didn't really stop to consider the kind of reaction it might have drummed up in his friend - he doesn't want to treat him any differently than he would anyone else. It's just sometimes he doesn't think - you don't think, you never figured out how to think, did you? - and he just goes and then when the outcome isn't what he expects it to be, he gets haplessly frustrated with himself, gets angry that he didn't come up with some better option.

Jesse hesitates before he sits back on his feet, both knees on the ground now, and he twists the cap off the bottle of rum. He doesn't drink right away, he's too busy glancing back and forth from Finch to the floor and back. There's this sharp guilt twisting in his gut. With a sniff and the rub of the back of his hand against his nose, he pinches at his bottom lip and digs his thumbnail right on in.

"We're not gonna get through this crap if we're givin' up before we're even out the gate," he finally offers up; his voice is quieter, and he keeps on picking at his lip, a little too hard. It's meant to be apologetic, but the 'sorry' gets lost somewhere in translation. "If it's the docs, it'll- it'll be over and done with after a while, right? Like the hallucinations or whatever. And like the," whatever the other thing was, but he wasn't a demon for long - long enough - and it went away at the end of all things. "If it's Galen's thing," and he doesn't really have a solution where that's involved, "I don't know, we'll figure it out."

Pinkman speaks up and Finch brings the bottle back up to his lips to drain the rest of it, because he will not cry in front of him. That particular gate has been closed, and everything down to the way he holds himself is the same way, closed off and guarded. He can hear the apology in Pinkman's voice, and it means something, but - this is routine. He's good at this. He's had to be.

He still won't meet Pinkman's gaze, but he nods. It really doesn't do any good to be a constant downer, he knows it, and he tries not to let that sort of thing out. But he's drained about half a pint of vodka on his own and he can't help it so much when he gets like this - things sneak past his filter. Deep breath. You're fine. You will be fine.

"I know," Jesse says, kneading at his pants leg. "We'll make it. Sorry. I'm being a shit." It's not so much self-deprecation as it is just insulting himself, at least. "We'll figure it out. The other shit didn't last long. S'fine."

But he's still not going to sleep. "Getting predictable, they are."

"Predictable." Jesse pinches one final time at his lip and gives a small hiss as he breaks skin, just sucks the blood off his thumb and then off his lip as he looks downward at his hands in his lap. He fidgets with precision, fingers carefully rubbing together. No matter what it is, it means it's a potential field day inside his head if anyone can get their hands on it. That's something that really, really doesn't jive with him.

He adjusts his legs and sits back on his ass instead. His knees prop up and he lets his arms dangle over them, fingers still twitching together for a few long moments. "Gonna be a long week." And that's if it's the scientists. If it's not, if it's this Jones thing, he really doesn't know what he's going to do. He can't see Finch go down that same road he did when he was having the hallucinations.

It's awfully hard to stand by his choices when Finch looks as wrung thing as he does now, and Jesse pinches his eyes shut again, tight, like he can block out the world for a second. "Wouldja look at me?" he finally asks; it's almost timid. He peeks his eyes open again and squints at Finch. "I know I'm bein' an asshole."

Edited 2013-06-21 08:59 (UTC)

No, see, if he looks, then he'll lose. Lose what, he doesn't know, but he will, and he swallows hard.

He doesn't want to, but he looks up at Pinkman. His expression isn't much better than his silence. It's a quick look, just to say he did, but Pinkman should be able to see the wariness on his face. When he looks back down, he fiddles with his bottle, tearing at the label, embarrassed. All he wants to do is just go to sleep, but he knows he can't. Not quite yet, anyway. It's probably not safe.

"You're not," Jesse mumbles, putting the bottle down to cover his head with his arms, elbows resting on his knees and hands clutching at the nape of his neck. "You're just tellin' it how it is, s'not gonna make it any better to whine about it."

He just has the feeling it's going to get worse from here. And they already started with the heavy guns, too - he's not sure what else they could dredge up.

The look doesn't exactly do much to sate Jesse. Their eyes meet and then they don't, and Jesse just glances away and down, a small and thin sigh making its way out. His thumb sullenly traces the mouth of the rum bottle and his own free hand copies Finch's, slides up to rub at his neck and even squeeze there a little anxiously. He's not supposed to be making Finch- afraid. If there's anything he's supposed to be doing, it's most decidedly not fucking that.

"Yeah, I am," he insists after a beat, shakes his head down at the rum, "because, I mean, I just, especially with- your dad-" And his breath sucks in when he says it - carefully, very carefully, and his eyes finally dart up to look at Finch again to gauge a reaction. "I should'a known better." He licks his lips and looks back down again, irritably jerking the bottle up. He concludes in a mutter that can barely be overheard, "I ain't that stupid," and then he takes a long pull off the bottle.

It's said carefully enough that Finch just tenses up slightly, just barely noticeable. Pinkman got the connection, there, and Finch is mortified and - almost relieved, all at once. Not many people know about the extent. Galen knows. Jon knows, Bruce knows. But everybody else just thinks that Jesse's father was a dick. And that's how Jesse likes to keep it, but now Pinkman knows and Jesse's stomach nearly does a backflip.

But Pinkman's... being good about it. Says he should've known better, and Finch looks up at him, lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Deep breath. It's okay. Keep repeating it and it'll be true.

"... S'okay." Jesse says, heavily. "Look - it. It fucked me up. Alright? A lot of - of why I'm." He has to stop, swallow hard, force the rest out. "I'm fucked up the way I am is cause of him, but - but you don't. Gotta kiddie gloves me, okay? Maybe - maybe right now, yeah, I'm. Still wigging the fuck out."

Deep breath. Being this honest is killing him, here. "But once people know that's the kind of thing that fucking sticks, like - oh, that's the kid who got beat to fuck by his dad, like, no wonder he's got tattoos and drinks so much and -- just." He looks back down at the bottle and kneads at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "-- And just. Thank you, too." For standing up for him.

"I'd do it again," Jesse submits without hesitation, as his thumb presses hard against the lip of the bottle, enough to go white. He suddenly points at Finch, waves a finger a few times as he starts to clamber to his feet. "Only next time, he wouldn't be so lucky." There's an edge to his voice, almost sadistic. "Next time, I'd bring a fuckin' bat."

He let the bottle clunk onto the counter and then plants both of his hands heavily onto it, leans forward and shuts his eyes for a few long seconds with a minute shake of his head.

With a sigh, Jesse speaks up again, and his thumb taps thoughtfully against the countertop as he does. "It's not- okay," he says haltingly as his head sinks down for a moment, but then he looks down at Finch. "And I ain't gonna treat you no different, nothin's changed." Though a lot's changed, he's seen plenty tonight that he probably shouldn't have been held privy to and he knows it. It's gotta affect how he sees Finch now, if not just a better understanding of where the guy's coming from.

"You're not just that guy, Finch." Jesse raises the bottle a little, halfway to his lips. "Yo, if we were all just whatever our dads made us out to be," he cuts off and looks away from Finch again, glowers at the wall in front of him, and the rest of his sentence is muttered into the bottle before he takes a healthy sip, "we'd all be fucked."

Maybe it's sadistic, maybe it's violent, but Pinkman's insistence makes Finch feel reassured. Makes him feel safer. Finch takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out, the pressure in his chest easing up. Look - he's doing good, Pinkman, saying all the right things. Jesse thunks his head back against the counter and closes his eyes, trying to soak in the dredges of comfort he feels from Pinkman's defense.

He needs it to counteract the sort of hopelessness he feels.

"Mm," Jesse starts, and then he's quiet for another few moments, trying to gather what he wants to say. The vodka's loosened his tongue, but even without it, after all that Pinkman's seen and everything that Jesse's said already, it comes surprisingly easy. "Just yeah. Thank you. Fucking - thanks. Nobody went against him. S'always my fault."

Deep breath, and he attempts to pull himself up so he can - he doesn't know. "You dunno how much it means that I know you got me, alright? Jesse." He's very, very serious, gripping at the counter as he stands, the world fuzzing slightly. "And you got me back, however fuckin' useless that is." A beat, and he rubs at his face again, looking down. "You're a real good friend t'me, Pinkman. I don't got a lotta those."

The compliments he's getting, they should really serve to make him feel better about himself, and maybe they do, before they get all twisted inside of him, confused somehow. Jesse should be relaxing but he tenses up instead, bristles and takes his hands off the counter to fold his arms in some kind of defense. He can't help it. He's never heard anything like it before.

And he really doesn't know what to say to it. He's quiet for a while again, rocking a little in his spot and rubbing his hand up and down his arm. He's not a hero, he's never gotten to be the hero, even if Finch is making him sound like one now. If he can help one person out here, fine, that's great, but he's got a lot to make up for and even at this he's doing a fairly paltry job, most of the time. It's hard for him, both here and back home, to try to do something worthwhile and not manage to be, to borrow the word Finch so adequately uses, useless.

"I'm tryin'," he finally concedes, his voice guarded and very hesitant, and he doesn't look at Finch. He holds out a hand and waves it around in a bit of a circle, drumming up what he wants to say. "Look, I know I ain't so good at this gig sometimes, but, it's like- It's worth it. Tryin'." Because Finch is worth trying for, he supposes. Best friend he's ever had. First real one he's ever had. And he's not really sure what to do with that. But if he's no help to Finch then he's no help to anybody here, and what good is he then?

It's not a bad feeling, when it gets down to it, being validated like that, and Jesse belatedly smiles at the counter, a flat-lined and tired little thing as his arms go back to being folded. But he glances up at Finch with it, the smile, doesn't really know how to thank him or what to do with that responsibility of having been the first person to stand up for him like that. "You're gonna be alright, Finch."

Jesse leans against the counter and tries to steady his head. It gives Pinkman the chance to think, and the silence isn't uncomfortable, just present. When Jesse can see straight and can lean with his back against the counter without slipping back down to the floor, he looks over at Pinkman, judging where they're at. If his words made Pinkman angry or feel weird.

But Pinkman speaks up, gestures a little, and what he says makes Finch smile a little, in the same fashion. He knows Pinkman tries - he hasn't forgotten that Pinkman's been conscious of using the right words. When Pinkman looks up, Finch offers him his own version of that smile and slips his hands into his pockets.

"I will be, yeah." Finch says, and for the first time in the night he feels a little less like he's going to suffocate. He thinks - both of them will be. That they're both taking steps.

It's a nice thought.

maybe I'll sleep when I am dead

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